


These Dark Days

by Camorra



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Dark!Charles, Human Experimentation, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-17 16:17:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18102044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camorra/pseuds/Camorra
Summary: Charles and Logan are on the run from Charles and Erik.Except they're not really.





	These Dark Days

????, ????

_Logan! …Logan! Looooooogan._

It’s irritating, like a mosquito, but no matter how much he swats at it, it doesn’t go away.

 _James!_ _Erm. Wolverine? You need to get up, or they’ll find you!_

What the fuck?

He sits up bolt upright.

It doesn’t look like he’s in danger. In fact, it looks rather cozy. There’s a pale pink quilt across his chest, and the walls are paper with pale blue flowers. There’s a lamp and pictures of flowers and sweeping mountain scapes, and underneath all of them are lace doilies.

Logan looks at the doilies with suspicion.

 _Cute,_ the voice says. It has a faint British accent and sounds rather friendly, all things considered. _But really, you need to go._

Logan decides to trust the voice for now. Because he might as fucking well.

_I can explain. But it’s rather…complicated._

Logan isn’t overly familiar with losing his fucking marbles, but he decides to attempt to communicate.

**Explain while I move.**

Removing the cute pink blanket reveals that he is, in fact, wearing pants. Which makes escaping much easier.

 _Perhaps use the window,_ the voice says sheepishly. _I’m not sure we exactly have the funds to pay the owner at this moment._

It’s a short jump to ground, but the impact is larger than Logan thinks it should be, jarring his ankles like he jumped three times the height.

But his body adapts with ease, like it’s done it a million times.

 _Pick something inconspicous this time,_ the voice says when Logan’s eyes linger a little too long on a motorcycle parked in front of a house opposite. _Something that doesn’t draw eyes as it passes. Like that little blue car over there!_

A Fiat?

His cute little voice wants him to steal a _Fiat?_

He’s starting to have doubts that it’s a little voice in his head, no part of him would be caught _dead_ in a Fiat if there was any other choice.

 _Of course I’m not a part of you,_ the voice says, affronted. _What, did you think I was your last surviving brain cell, trying its damn best?_

Logan has no idea what the voice is _._

_Charles, Charles Xavier._

Nice. Not helpful, though.

_It’s complicated._

Logan decides the motorcycle actually _is_ the best option, thank you very much, and a with a little help from his claws—

No.

They’re his claws. They are in fact, extending from his own hand. But something tells him they shouldn’t be gleaming in the sunlight metal. They should be _bone._

 _Perhaps,_ Charles says. _But we don’t have time for that now._

Logan revs up the motorcycle, and at a suggestion from Charles, makes a right.

 **Start talking,** Logan thinks really hard.

There’s a sigh-like feeling. _Where to start? I suppose at what I am._

A telepath. Duh.

_Yes, well. I’m afraid it’s a bit more complex than that. I had permission to occupy headspace with you. I would leave, but I’m rather out of options, at the moment. But I think it’s perhaps easiest to tell the story in order._

Logan thinks it’s best to tell the story in most relevant. Like why Charles is here and who they’re running from.

 _I might have been overreacting,_ Charles says, a mite sheepishly. _They might not actually be after you. You did a rather decent job at painting the walls with their blood._

Flashes of bodies stacked on top of each other, dead eyes staring straight while guts trail on the floor and on each other.

Logan decides to pull over.

_I thought it might be best if your memories came naturally, but that may not be best, now that I think about it. You were in an experimental, ah, lab. For several years._

How many years? What lab? Government? Which damn one?

_Not really, no. Can’t say I’m sure how many. More than we thought it would be, at least._

Great. Wait, than they _thought_? He planned this? _They_ planned this And why can’t he remember shit?

_Several part of your brain were damaged during your extended stay in the, ah, clinic._

But he’s a telepath. In his mind. Can’t he, ya know, prevent that?

_Yes, well. It seemed cruel to prevent your mind from healing as it wanted._

You couldn’t pick and choose?

 _I’m not a neurologist,_ Charles says primly. _I’m a geneticist. Unless me you want to try my hand at it? You don’t seem to use a good portion of your mind anyway, not much to lose, eh?_

It has the feeling of a good-natured jab but Logan’s not really jiving with it.

_Right. Touchy subject. Eh, start driving and I’ll try and fill in the gaps. As much as I can, at least._

Right. Driving. He can do that.

_It doesn’t matter where you go, at the moment. Perhaps even best if we took a circuitous route, you’re not exactly known to be fan of settling down._

Circuitous route to where? A home?

_No. Not really. Not anymore._

Then where?

_Well. To Magneto. And me._

 

_September, 1962_

Charles has had his eyes _forcibly_ opened traveling with Erik.

Suburbs, city, farms. To swanky private school field trips to taxi cabs to tidy living rooms, he’s seen it all and more. He’s been across America, in all its scattered glory.

This bar is still one of the filthiest, seediest places he’s ever come across.

Erik, of course, notices his discomfort. “Not quite high-class enough for you?”

Charles rather doubts it’s high class enough for _most_ people. “There’s an unconscious man in the parking lot,” he says, because Erik’s been making quips the entire trip and to call it grating would be to put it mildly. Like Erik has somehow forgotten that it’s Charles’s money that makes the transportation possible and the hotels happen. Or no, he makes quips about those _too,_ like he would much rather be huddled under a cardboard box for the principle of the thing.

Maybe if they had forgone the hotel and huddled under a box last night, they would fit in better. The looks they receive aren’t exactly _friendly._

But there aren’t exactly a _lot_ of them either, but it’s more than a bar should expect at _noon._

Charles makes a bee-line to the mind that shines at him like a beacon, the one throwing back whiskey like it’s nothing more than water.

Fantastic, another alcoholic.

He sidles to one side and Erik to the other, and he senses that was a wrong move as the the man tenses and brings his cigar up to his lips.

“I’m Erik Lenshier,” Erik says, bracing a hand on the stranger’s back because he’s brilliant and inspiring but excellent with people he is not.

 _“_ I’m Charles Xavier,” he says, trying to seem non-threatening.

“Go fuck yourself.”

Erik looks at him question clear. And this is the part where Charles is supposed to probe and see if that’s really the end of that.

But he can’t.

Or at least, not casually. So he shrugs and Erik turns to leave.

But as they walk out the door, he feels a question at the back of his mind. Not alarmed one, just curious at what had been poking.

Charles wants to turn around, but he suspect that Erik wouldn’t be productive to discussions.

“Where was next on the list?” Erik says, looking around calmly.

“Actually,” Charles says, “I thought perhaps we could stay here for another day.”

Erik raises an eyebrow, and Charles doesn’t know if it’s his imagination or if there’s derision in that too.

“The pace has been punishing,” and it’s both a barb and an allowance. “It would not be wrong to take a break, I think.”

“Meet back at the hotel?” Charles asks, because he thinks that after weeks of breathing each other’s air, they need a break.

Erik gives a clipped nod, and walks out to do—what ever it is Erik does in his free time.

Charles makes an attempt to look like he’s not about to make a u-turn back into the bar, but he doubts he’s entirely succesful.

“Huh,” the man says as Charles slouches into the seat next to him. “It’s not the worst attempt at fucking off I’ve ever seen. Not far from it, though.”

“What is the worst?”

“Well,” the man says, sucking on his cigar thoughtfully. “’S between a sucker punch and a knife to the gut.”

“I’d think one would have a worse outcome.”

His grin isn’t kind. “Not for the one that threw, ‘em.”

“Ah.”

“So what is it you wanted, bub? Since you’ve done me the kind favor of ditching your pet asshole and all.”

Charles sifts on his seat. “Do you mind moving somewhere more private to discuss it?”

The barman doesn’t look like he could care less, but it’s not worth taking risks you don’t have to.

“What, someone claim I knock them up? You the messenger boy? Gotta say, wasn’t wise ditching the other guy if you are.”

 _Not in slightest,_ Charles sends, having to push to be heard. Erik would make a joke about a thick skull, but Charles suspects something else. _Does that happen often?_

The man stares. “Why didn’t you _lead_ with that?”

He heaves himself off the stool and trundles over to the corner, but not before reaching over and grabbing a bottle of something brown.

“So, you’re,” the man gestures vaguely.

“Yes, I am,” Charles says, mimicking his hand motions. “By the way, hat’s your name?”

“You can’t pick that up with your—” another hand waving motion, but this one from his forehead to the world at large, complete with magic fingers.

“I can. But it seems extraordinarily ude.”

“Logan.”

Charles pauses, waiting to hear more. But the silence stretches and it’s obvious no more is coming.

“Right. Well, Logan. We’re assembling a team—”

“Well fuck tha—”

“Perhaps team isn’t the right word,” Charles says hastily. “We’re not exactly a hit squad or anything. Just. Mutants coming together to learn how to control and use their powers.”

Logan’s expression is eloquent.

“Alright, with a little funding from the CIA.”

“There it is.”

“But it’s only to prevent World War III.”

Logan…doesn’t react like the others have. He doesn’t look surprised or determined, or anything else that the mutants they’ve been recruiting have looked.

“Gee, haven’t heard that one before.” He sucks on his cigar. “But it’s fine, I do alright in wars.”

“Have you tried a nuclear one?” Charles says archly.

Logan considers. “You may have a point there.”

Charles leaves the bar minus one hastily scratched address, but plus one feeling of accomplishment.

 

Logan’s arrival at the CIA base is heralded by a flurry of activity.

McTaggert is not happy.

“Do you know who this is, Charles?” she says, stabbing a finger at the one way glass. Logan sits like he did last time Charles saw him, unconcerned and smoking.

“I thought he was not interested,” Erik says mildly.

“His name is Logan,” Charles says. “He’s a mutant who has kindly come to assist us. Really, this is all very unnecessary.”

“The CIA has a file _this thick_ on him,” McTaggert says, holding her hands roughly eight inches apart. It _seems_ like a lot, but Charles has no idea how large most CIA files are. It might even be exceptionally small. He sincerely doubts it though. “Most of it is _redacted._ It might as well be black sheets of paper for all the care that went in to making sure nothing was readable. But you know what isn’t? He’s home from a dishonorable discharge from the army, served in Vietnam. Has been known to do mercenary work to make ends meet.”

“Ah,” Charles says, grasping for straws to make it not look bad that he took great, personal pains to ensure that a known killer would show up at a CIA research base.”

“Sounds like someone we need,” Erik says, squinting through the glass. “Someone with experience at fighting. But I will admit to being confused, I thought he initially turned down the offer. So what is he doing here?”

“I was invited,” Logan growls. “You gonna let me outta here or what?”

“He was a lot more receptive when I met him later,” Charles says quickly. “Agreed to come.”

Erik raises his eyebrows, but looks mollified. McTaggert does not.

“This man is dangerous,” she warns.

“I rather think that’s the point of all this,” Erik says. “Collecting dangerous people.”

And that was that.

Logan wanders out of his cell, tapping ashes along the way.

“Coulda told everyone I was coming, Chuck,” he says to Charles. “Saved everyone a lotta time and effort. Now, let’s see who this war-stopping crack-squad is.”

“They’re an exceptional bunch of young people,” Charles says. “Dedicated.”

“Better hope so,” McTaggert says. “The plane for Russia leaves in an hour.”

Erik’s lips tighten. “They’re not ready for Shaw.”

“We shall see,” Charles says, hoping beyond hope that he’s proven right.

Logan looks doubtful, but follows them without complaint further into the compound.

The first sign that something is wrong is the steady thrum of music.

The second is the sound of breaking furniture.

It’s even worse than he could have imagined.

Broken furniture lays scattered on the floor, trash litters every free surface.

It's rather like he walked into some raging frat party instead of a covert base.

The rampant energy dies as Erik spits, “exceptional, huh?” Sharper and more effective than any whip.

“Who destroyed the statue?” McTaggert says, the echo of a thousand angry mothers everywhere.

“It was Alex!”

“No,” Raven says, hoping off the couch she was bouncing on. It serves to do nothing but make what she says next even more ridiculous. “Havoc. We have to call him Havoc.” She points to Erik. “And we think you should be called Magneto.” And she points at Charles. “And you're Professor X.”

Raven is flushed with a childish sort of pride and ego and probably a little balloons and it's hard to see.

To say Logan is severely unimpressed is like saying the sun is warm. Accurate, but hardly even touching the truth of things.

“They're all fucking kids.”

“They want to help,” Charles says, at the same time a chorus of, “ _are nots_ ,” and “ _how dare you_ ”s filter through.

“Doesn't mean they’ll be any damn good at it,” Logan says. “Good intentions doesn’t get you anything but dead in these types of things.”

“I can kill a man,” Alex says darkly from a corner.

“That’s nice,” Logan says, not looking very impressed. “But can you do it ‘cause you _want_ to, or cause that’s just what happens when you used your power? Can you _control_ it?”

Alex gets a rather sour look on his face, but doesn’t reply.

“You need to send all of these kids home,” Logan says to Charles, apparently having decided he was the leader of this operation. “This isn’t a place for them.”

“Perhaps,” Erik says. “But the fact is, we need all the help we can get if we’re to stop Shaw.”

Charles doesn't recall Erik being particularly gung-ho about their mutant crew either, but Logan makes Erik bristle in the same way he did with Charles when they first met.

“Shaw? Sebastian Shaw? The Hellfire Club? You wanna use _kids_ to fight one of the most ruthless groups of cronies out there? What kind of fucking monster are you?” Logan says, and Erik’s face hardens before Charles’s eyes.

“The kind that has seen real ones,” Erik says quietly, “and cannot bide their existence any longer.”

Logan looks doubtful. “So that gives you the right to—”

“Everyone here is eighteen,” Charles says, “and has the right to make their own choice.”

But McTaggert is already walking away. “We have forty-five minutes and no time to talk about this. Decisions will have to be made when we get back.”

Charles takes one last look at the young faces staring back at him, but he can't help but focus on Raven’s devastation. “I expected better from you.”

 

“They want to call him _Magneto_ ,” Logan mumbles, as they bumble along a bumpy road somewhere in the middle of Nowhere, Russia. He and Erik had somehow managed to use the entire plane ride to _bicker,_ and Charles is beginning to feel somewhat like an overworked and tired mother of two toddlers.

 _“_ Later, Logan.”

“It’s a sign of _respect—”_

“Please, Erik.”

“I was just—”

There’s a knock on the small door separating them from the truck cabin. Charles doesn’t cry with relief, but it’s a close thing.

“There’s a small problem,” the driver says.

“I’m so sorry, but this wasn’t on the map,” McTaggert says.

Up ahead, staring to become visible, is a checkpoint, bored soldiers with big guns.

“No matter what happens, act normally, I’ll take care of it,” Charles says, closing the door.

There’s a meaty, sick sound, and Charles turns to see three glistening claws extended from Logan’s hand.

So that’s what he does.

“No, listen to me,” Charles says. “I need everyone to stay perfectly silent. It’s much harder to cover for two sense at once. If you feel the need to cock your weapon, please do so now, but please refrain from shooting until there is no doubt we’ve been seen.”

There’s a chorus of guns being readied, and a questioning look from both Logan and Erik, but he ignores them both in favor of curling his fingers on his temple. He doesn’t need to, not really, but it helps him focus and gives him a sensation to steady himself on and he needs all the help he can get for this.

The door flings open and he projects, as hard as he can: _the van is empty._

The human mind is an amazing thing, and will fill in the gaps for him, blocking out humans and guns and armor. If it’s told it the van is empty, it will scramble to make it true.

He can stare into the eyes of the bewildered driver and bored guard and know that they see nothing.

The doors close and Charles slumps back into his seat.

“Neat trick,” Logan says, and Erik pats him on the thigh vigorously, approvingly.

It’s enough to keep Charles warm, even though it’s far colder than any place has a right to be this far into summer.

But it isn’t all going to plan.

“That’s not Shaw,” Logan says, squinting, having forgone the offered pair of binoculars.

“No shit,” Erik says. “Your powers of observation are _unparalleled._ ”

“Then where is Shaw?” McTaggert says, apparently getting as sick of them as Charles is.

“I don’t know,” Charles says, “that’s the telepath, I try and read her and we’ll get caught in an instant. But there is something I can try to do.”

Charles taps his fingers to his temple, but this time it’s more for the benefit of the others rather than any real need.

He stretches as far as he can, and it has a sort of ache like a muscle would, but he lands in the mind of a guard near the door.

It’s not a very exciting place to be. Half-formed thoughts about dinner and the cold and the echoes or some song from the radio bungle around, and it’s easy to direct attention to the newcomer.

Pushing away his host’s rather lewd ideas, Charles focuses in on Frost’s and the General’s conversation.

It’s not very exciting either, and the only take away is that, “he’s not coming. So, what now, boss?”

“Now nothing,” McTaggert says, “we’re here for Shaw, mission aborted.”

“The hell it is,” Erik hisses.

“ _Erik,”_ McTaggert says, grabbing at him.

“She’s his right hand woman, that’s good enough for me.”

“The CIA, invading the home of a top Soviet official?” McTaggert shakes her head. “We’d single-handedly start World War III, are you crazy?”

“I’m not CIA,” Erik says, and Charles sees what he’s about to do moments before he does it.

“ _Erik_ ,” Charles starts, but Erik isn’t listening.

Erik sprints toward the house. As he goes, weapons turn against their owners, barbed wire comes alive and coils around its prey. Erik isn’t careful, and the aftermath as men struggle and writhe is not pretty.

“He has a point,” Logan says. “She’s the best thing we’ve got to a lead. It wouldn’t be awful if she was captured.”

“The CIA can’t be seen here.”

Logan’s smile is thin and not happy. “Like he said, we’re not CIA.”

McTaggert’s lips are so thin as to be bloodless. “Let’s move out, we can’t be seen here.”

It’s a decision that’s not a decision at all. “I’m sorry, can't leave him.”

McTaggert looks at Logan, who shrugs. “I'm with him.”

“Find your way back, the CIA can't have anything to do with this.”

Charles runs towards the house, Logan on his heels.

 

_???,????_

It's sorta nice.

More intimate than a movie would be, that's for damn sure, but it's not unlike listening to the radio in the background.

Or maybe riding the motorcycle is like listening to the radio. Doesn't need his whole damn attention, and isn't that a terrifying thought.

Charles has something vague to say about motorcycles and statistics but they sound tired and mute and more like a feeling than an actual thought Logan doubts they apply to someone like him anyway.

But motorcycles need gas and he needs to take a leak and there's a worn-out looking rest stop ahead that's definitely hasn't seen better days, it's so far out of the beaten path, but doesn’t look abandoned and that’s good enough for him.

 _We still don’t have money,_ Charles reminds him as he roars into the station.

He’ll figure something out, he always does.

 _I actually have an idea,_ Charles says, ponderous and slow. _But I’ll need to borrow your body for a moment._

That doesn’t sound dangerous at all.

But Charles sits and waits until Logan tentatively slides back. It’s odd, being a passenger in your own body. He can feel his feet hitting the pavement, and how cool the air is starting to become, but couldn’t make his arm lift to scratch his nose if he wanted to.

Charles ( _Logan? They?)_ walk into the worn down shop and greets the cashier.

“Fifty on pump three,” Logan hears in his own voice.

“Right,” the cashier says. “Gonna need to see the money first.”

Logan can feel two of his own fingers land on his temple.

Then, his entire spine lights up with pain. It’s a mild sort of pain, he’s dealt with worse, but it’s like someone is walking on his bare spine and it’s uncomfortable, sickening. Logan vaguely hears himself say: “We’ve already paid.”

And the cashier nods and punches some buttons and Charles retreats, leaving Logan feeling nauseous and confused.


End file.
